My Hell, My Angel
by Shalla Neltrina
Summary: Hawkeye has a breakdown, Trapper brings him back


Disclaimer - This story is non-profit, and is not in any way intended to infringe on the rights of 20th Century Fox or the Hallmark channel. I don't own 'em, and I'm not making money off 'em.

Dedicated to anyone who reads this and gives me feedback :-P

I must warn you, this is my first MASH fic EVER, so tell me if it sucks so I'll stop writing, oh, and feedback _please_  
  
**My Hell, My Angel**

War is Hell.  
  
A quaint phrase. I have a feeling though, that even Hell is an afternoon stroll through the park compared to the sometimes searing, sometimes freezing God forsaken blood drenched wasteland that is Korea.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if I've already died and my eternal damnation is to linger on in this chaotic war zone. But then I think that even Satan wouldn't be so cruel as I drag myself to my bunk after twelve straight hours of meatball surgery.  
  
The only bright spot in my dark, red and army-green world is the still, it's mother's milk and my golden haired bunkmate, Trapper. The homemade gin helps me forget about the bloody war and the kids I couldn't save, and Trapper helps me to my bunk when I've forgotten too much.  
  
He does more than that though. He keeps me sane. When the war outside becomes crazier, he and I stay in our own little gin-flavored bubble. But sometimes the bubble pops showering me with droplets of blood. This was one of those times.  
  
It was late. No, it was early. Whenever it was, it was cold. Trapper and I had just finished up in the OR, and were walking, no, stumbling, back to the Swamp.  
  
I was in shock. My patient, one of the many, a soldier with more hidden metal in him than a minefield, had died. He was seventeen. He'd probably lied when he signed up. He was only a baby; it made me sick. The kind of sick that usually goes away with the help of some rotgut.  
  
But that night it was different. Don't ask me how. It just felt different.  
  
The liquid fire did nothing to stop the almost physical pain I felt at that boy's death as it burned down my throat. Even Trapper's attempts at conversation fell on deaf ears as I relived the moment that boy's heart had stopped.  
  
I'd almost felt it. With my hands up to my wrists covered in blood, pushing aside flesh to search for shrapnel, I felt something. When you're around, and sometimes the cause of so much death, you can almost feel it. It's like a brush of something; the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It's, unfortunately, happened so much, I imagine it to be the person's soul escaping their body. It somehow makes it easier to think of it that way.  
  
Anyway, lost in thought, I sat there. Sat on my bunk. Then I looked over, and Trapper was sitting beside me. He put his arm around my shoulder, and took the gin from my hand. It was only then I realized I was crying. Tears streamed down my face and sobs wracked my body as I put my face into his chest, my arms loosely circling his waist, he in turn holding me tight.  
  
"I couldn't save him." I choked out, my voice muffled by his chest.  
  
"You can't save them all, Hawk." He replied; his voice wavered slightly. "You did your best, that's all anyone can ask for." His voice was now strong, level. I must have misheard his voice cracking.  
  
I shook as my sobs wrung the last of my tears from my body. And yet through it all he held me, whispering soothing words and hollow reassurances that everything would be okay. The thing was, in his arms, I believed him; everything was going to be okay. As long as I have him, I can face another day of meatball surgery. I can face knowing that one more kid isn't going home, and it's my fault. I can face Korea.  
  
Friendships are cemented through hardships-if that's true, me and Trapper have one Hoover Dam of a friendship-and since we've seen each other's lowest points, more mine than his, our friendship has grown. It's bigger than the both of us, bigger than this war. Together we can take on the vilest of enemies: despair, guilt and pain, mess tent food, and yes, even Frank Burns.  
  
Now as I look across the swamp in the early morning at my best friend, his head wreathed in a curly gold halo from the rising sun, a smile comes to my face.  
  
As I close my eyes I think maybe war isn't Hell after all.  
  
It brought me Trapper.  
  
End


End file.
